


Meet Me Christmas Eve

by Kittycrackers (Calacious)



Category: General Hospital
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, M/M, Plane Crash, psychic connection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:23:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Kittycrackers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason's got a bad feeling about Spinelli going to Tennessee on his own, but he doesn't say anything. He wakes with a terrifying dream the night that Spinelli's supposed to be returning home. Will they be able to celebrate Christmas Eve, their wedding anniversary, together?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Promise You'll Be Home for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suerum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suerum/gifts).



> Merry Christmas Suerum. I hope that you like this. Sorry that I didn't get this up sooner.

“Stone Cold,” Spinelli catches him by the wrist, squeezes, “the Jackal will only be gone a week, tops.”

 

It’s a promise, but it doesn’t sit right in Jason’s gut. Something’s off, but he can’t put his finger on it, so he nods, attempts a smile, and pushes aside his inexplicable fear.  Spinelli’s not the only one traveling so close to the holidays, it does nothing to ease Jason’s apprehension.

 

“You sure you don’t want me to come with?” Jason asks, one last ditch effort to talk some sense into the man he loves even more than he’d ever loved Sam.

 

Spinelli shakes his head – a gesture which Jason had anticipated even before he’d asked. The young man frowns, and Jason’s heart drops.

 

“No, I think it’d be better if you didn’t come. Granny’s kind of old-fashioned, and with her heart in poor condition, I just don’t think it’d be wise.” Spinelli’s words hurt more than Jason’s willing to admit, but he nods, swallows his pain, and puts his hands in his pockets because he’s afraid that if he doesn’t, he’ll hold onto Spinelli and never let him go.

 

Spinelli wraps his arms around Jason, kisses him and pulls back much too soon for Jason’s liking.  His green eyes are filled with love and regret. “I want you to come,” he says on a sigh, brushes a hand through his hair.

 

He and Spinelli had started ‘dating’ over two years ago, and had solidified their relationship in a civil wedding on Christmas Eve a year later. Another reason that Jason is reluctant to see Spinelli leave – it’s so close to their anniversary.

 

“I understand,” Jason says. He still can’t shake the feeling of dread that’s taken up residence in his stomach from the moment Spinelli had told him he’d be going to visit his grandmother – something about getting her affairs in order – for a week. “Danny and I will be waiting for you.”

 

He still can’t believe that Sam’s gone, leaving little Danny – now three and a half years old – to be raised by Jason and Spinelli. Even though she’s been dead for over a year now, Jason still expects to see her walking through the penthouse door one of these days, a big smile on her face and an explanation as to why she’s been gone. Why she faked her death. Except, he knows it wasn’t a faked death – he saw the body, buried her, mourned her death, and moved on.

 

“I promise I’ll be back in time,” Spinelli says, and Jason wonders if he’s become that transparent, or if it’s just Spinelli that can read him. Perhaps it’s a little of both.

 

One last kiss and Spinelli waves goodbye as he rushes off. Jason stands there, watching, long after Spinelli walks out the door.  Spinelli won’t even let him drop him off at the airport, which is at least a three and a half hour drive from Port Charles. Jason still can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.

 

Jason wakes Danny from his late afternoon nap, and busies himself with caring for the toddler. It doesn’t take his mind completely off of Spinelli, but it does give him something to do. It’s after Danny’s put down for the night, and Jason’s got a whole evening spread out before him, that the worry starts to peck at him, like an unruly hen.

 

For the next week, Jason maintains a strict routine – wake, feed Danny, naptime, lunch, dinner, and bedtime – making sure that he’s always near the phone for Spinelli’s daily call, and making sure that Danny’s awake so that he can talk to his Dada Spinelli. He misses the young detective so much that his bones ache.

 

“I’ll be back tomorrow night,” Spinelli assures him for what must be the dozenth time.

 

The week he’s spent without Spinelli has felt like a lifetime, and every day the sense of dread that he’s had since the moment Spinelli told him he was leaving, has grown. He wants to tell Spinelli not to get on the plane, to drive home, even though that will mean they’ll miss spending Christmas together, but he holds his tongue.

 

“I miss you,” Jason says instead. “Danny misses you too.”

 

“I miss you guys too, can’t wait to see you.”

Later that night, after he hangs up with Spinelli, and Danny’s asleep, Jason can’t get comfortable in bed – Spinelli’s side is cold, he’s used to having the younger man spooning up behind him. Spinelli’s like a furnace, and Jason misses the heat. Spinelli will be halfway through his flight by now. He punches his pillow, drags Spinelli’s over and wraps his arms around it. It smells like his lover – orange soda, barbecue chips and aftershave –  and the thought of that makes his heart skip a beat.

 

When sleep finally does come, it isn’t peaceful. Jason dreams of fire and torn metal so hot that it’s white and smoldering. There’s screaming and he’s choking on smoke that’s too thick to see through. He can’t breathe and it’s too hot and he’s freezing, shivering with cold. There’s blood too, making it hard for him to see, and pain. He stumbles forward on feet numb with shock, lands hard on his knees, crawls toward a tree. There’s snow on the ground, and he’s crying out, crying out for Stone Cold.

 

Jason wakes with a start, a shout frozen on his lips. His heart’s pounding in his chest, and he reaches over to assure himself that it had just been a nightmare, that Spinelli’s fine, but Spinelli isn’t there. The bed’s empty, Jason’s alone, and he stumbles from his bed, flips the bathroom light on. It’s harsh, blinding. He fumbles with the faucet, splashes cold water on his face.

 

“It was just a dream,” he tells his reflection, “Spinelli’s fine.” His eyes, reflected in the clear surface, tell him that he’s lying.

 

He can still smell flesh, burning. It’s a cloying, awful stench and Jason stumbles down the stairs, using the wall to support him as he lurches along. His head is pounding, and he can’t see. The apartment, bathed in darkness, swims in and out of focus as he staggers to the couch. He’s surrounded by trees, and yet he isn’t.

 

He shakes his head to clear it, but that only makes things worse – trees sprout up from the floor, the couch flickers in and out of existence, and Jason closes his eyes so that he can get his bearings. He feels his way to the couch. Thankfully, whatever is happening to him doesn’t cause him to bump into imaginary trees, and he makes it to the couch, collapsing on it.

 

He’s winded, as though he’s run a marathon, rather than walked the short distance from his bedroom to the living room. His stomach hurts, and he’s frightened. Lost.

 

_Stone Cold?_  

 

Not his voice, Spinelli’s.

 

Disoriented, Jason opens his eyes. No one else is in the living room with him – and thankfully, the trees are gone. He’s alone. Spinelli’s alone. Stranded. The plane is wrecked. He can still smell the smoke. Can still see big, black billows of it pouring straight up into the air.

 

Jason’s head aches, feels like it’s about to split in two. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. If he’s still dreaming. He hopes to god that he’s dreaming. That Spinelli’s plane hasn’t crashed. That, whatever the hell is going on with him and this _vision,_ isn’t related to Spinelli.

 

The phone call comes a few minutes after midnight – two hours after Jason woke in a disoriented sweat, hearing his own name being spoken by someone who wasn’t there. He doesn’t answer it at first, because he knows what the call’s about. He doesn’t want it confirmed, because it would make what he’s experiencing real, and that would mean that Spinelli’s in danger.

 

He holds the phone and stares at it. The ringing stops and then starts up again. The phone feels strange in his hand, like it’s meant for a tiny person and he’s a giant.

 

When he does finally manage to hit the answer call button on the phone and say, “Hello,” Jason’s worked up a sweat. He can hear the words that the man on the other end is saying, but he can’t understand them. They sound like a foreign language to him, like Spinelli, before he got used to the younger man’s unusual speech patterns.

 

“I . . .” Jason doesn’t know what to say. The room is spinning, and there are trees, endless trees, and none of this is real. It can’t be real.

 

“Sir? Sir? Are you there? Can you hear me?” The voice sounds tinny, distorted.

 

Jason clears his throat and closes his eyes. “Yes, yes, I’m here. I can hear you.”

 

“Am I speaking with Jason Morgan?”

 

“Yes.” It’s a good thing he’s already sitting down, because Jason feels faint.

 

“My name is John Walters. I’m a representative of Budget Airlines.” The man takes a deep breath; Jason steals himself for bad news that he already somehow knows. “I’m sorry to have to inform you that, around nine-thirty PM, flight 298, taking off from Athens, Tennessee, headed to New York, met with a sudden storm front and directed to land in Knoxville.” Another pause for breath and Jason’s gripping the phone as though it’s a lifeline, hoping, in spite of what he already knows to be true, that Spinelli’s okay, that the plane made it to Knoxville safely. “They didn’t make it. The plane crashed in the Smoky Mountain Range. Rescue crews are already on site. Your partner, Damien Spinelli, as well as several others, is unaccounted for. We are doing everything we can to recover the missing passengers, but…”

 

Jason hangs up, turns off his phone. He doesn’t need to hear anymore. He can still smell the fire from the plane, thick in his nostrils. He doesn’t understand this connection, or whatever it is, that he has with Spinelli, but he is grateful for it, because it lets him know that the other man is still alive.

 

Jason wastes no time in packing – clothes (for him and Spinelli), first aid kit, flashlight, rope, canned and dried food, an extra battery for his phone, flares – and then he turns his phone on and ignores the message that’s on it. Though it’s now just approaching three A.M. one day before Christmas Eve, he dials Liz, knowing that she won’t mind the late call. As a nurse, she’s used to getting wakeup calls at all hours of the night. At least that’s what she used to tell him.

 

“Jason, what’s wrong?” are the first words out of Liz’s mouth, and though they’re spoken groggily, Jason is relieved.

 

“Spinelli’s plane crashed.” He’s surprised that he can get the words out at all. He feels sick to his stomach, and he isn’t certain if it’s from his connection with Spinelli, or if it’s all him.

 

“Oh, god, Jason.” Liz’s breath hitches. “I’m so sorry, what do you need me to do?”

 

“Can you watch Danny for me? I’m going to bring Spinelli home.”

 

“Jas . . .”

 

“I’m bringing him home, Liz,” Jason bites out. His stomach roils and he clutches at it, sees trees, and reaches a hand out to lean against a tree that isn’t there.

 

“I’m sorry Jason, I know you will,” Liz says. “Bring Danny here; I’ll watch him for as long as you need. I’ll ask for some time off of work.”

 

“You don’t . . .”

 

“Jason, don’t worry about it, just bring Danny here, and bring Spinelli home,” Liz says, and she sounds more alert.

 

Jason nods, hangs up and then packs up necessities for Danny – the little blue and white rabbit that Spinelli got for him when he was only a few months old, Danny won’t go anywhere without it; Spinelli’s university tee-shirt that Danny uses as a makeshift blankie; and the plastic turtle that Spinelli and Jason bought for him on their honeymoon to Australia.

 

By the time that Jason reaches Liz’s place, Danny’s fallen back to sleep after his abrupt wakening – lulled by the movement of the vehicle and the quiet music, a CD of Spinelli singing some of the toddler’s favorite songs. Liz is waiting for him on the porch, arms ready to receive the sleeping toddler and his hastily packed bag.

 

Liz hugs him briefly and Jason plants a kiss on his son’s forehead, and then he’s back in his car, headed for Sonny’s private jet. Though Sonny had been vehemently opposed to the concept of Jason marrying Spinelli in the beginning, he’d warmed up to the idea over the past year, and had come to accept it. He’d even started being kinder to Spinelli – at Jason’s insistence, and the threat that he’d quit if Sonny didn’t cut the crap and treat Spinelli decently. Something he should’ve done a long time ago.

 

The drive passes by all too quickly, and Jason boards the plane with dual images in his mind – that of trees and mountain peaks, and that of the interior of the plane. It’s headache inducing, so he closes his eyes and lets the alien images –those imported from Spinelli – flood his mind. He hopes that they’ll lead him to his missing partner.

 

Jason doesn’t know when he fell asleep, how he managed to fall asleep, but he’s wakened by a shake to the shoulder, the pilot frowning down at him. “We’re here sir.”

 

Jason blinks, wipes the sleep from his eyes and nods. He doesn’t really have words right now. He grabs his bag, and disembarks. He doesn’t tell the pilot to wait; he knows that Sonny’s already cleared it with the man; that he’s been told to wait until Jason returns with Spinelli. Even if he misses Christmas with whatever family he has, the man will be paid handsomely for doing nothing more than waiting.

 

Now that he’s landed, Jason has no idea where to start. He has only a vague idea, from the apparent connection he has with Spinelli, of where the younger man is. Pine trees, taller than any Jason has ever seen, rock-littered ground, and bushes, are all that he’s getting from Spinelli. It isn’t particularly helpful, because, everywhere Jason turns, he sees the same scenery.

 

Jason heads toward the rescue camp that’s been set up. He’d called ahead of time, arranging to meet with the man in charge, a sheriff by the name of Lee Bradley. Bradley doesn’t have much to tell him, other than they’re looking mostly at recovery right now, and that the temperatures throughout the night were close to freezing. There’s little chance that any of the survivors of the plane crash are still alive.

 

“Sir.” One of the deputies tries to stop him from entering the forest, Jason brushes him off.

 

He’s learned all he can from the sheriff – memorized the map of the plane crash site, where rescue groups have concentrated, and has come up with a plan. He closes his eyes, ignores the deputy’s pleas for him to stop, and concentrates on Spinelli, hoping that, if he wills it to happen, the connection might go both ways, that he can strengthen it.

 

“Come on, Spinelli,” Jason mutters, “where are you?”

 

He takes a deep breath, and opens his eyes when he’s met with the same image that has been plaguing him for the past half hour – a jagged rock a little taller than Spinelli, and a tall, knotted tree that feels rough against his/Spinelli’s back.

 

“Sir, you really shouldn’t go alone,” the deputy calls after him, but Jason enters past the yellow tape, and doesn’t look back.

 

Jason moves mostly by instinct. The debris of the plane is widespread – he almost stumbles over part of a wing, and he swallows as he imagines how terrible it all must’ve been for Spinelli, who doesn’t like to travel by plane to begin with. He stops every now and again to test his connection to the younger man, finds that Spinelli either hasn’t moved, or that he’s asleep, because he’s getting nothing else from him.

 

It’s cold, and for Jason the cold seems to be magnified. Even though he’s wearing a jacket and gloves, the cold seeps in beneath them, tiring him.

 

“Spinelli,” Jason whispers the name desperately. “Spinelli, speak to me, let me know that you’re still with me. Give me something. Help me find you.”

 

It’s a prayer, of sorts, one that Jason hopes will work, because he can’t lose Spinelli, not this way, not when he could have prevented the younger man’s death by telling him not to go. By making him stay.

 

_Stone Cold._

It’s weak, indistinct, but Jason’s heart soars. “That’s it, Spinelli, come on. Show me where you are.”

 

_Stone Cold?_

The voice that Jason hears in his head is clearer, and a little louder, but Jason can sense Spinelli’s confusion. He wonders if Spinelli can sense anything from him. Just in case he can, Jason fills his mind with every bit of positive emotion that he can muster.

 

He brings to the forefront of his mind, key moments in his life that involve Spinelli: the first time he realized that he was in love with the detective – shortly after he’d met him, but he was too afraid to act on his feelings, something which would forever gnaw at his conscience; the first time they kissed, beneath the mistletoe which Carly had placed over their heads – what had begun as a light and carefree peck on the lips had turned into a fiery, passionate head-over-heels-in-love-with-you kiss; the first time they made love – Spinelli’s back arched to Jason’s touch, head thrown back, hair glistening with sweat and voice pitched to moaning.

 

Jason can feel a switch in the connection, his breath hitches, and he smiles. “That’s it Spinelli, show me more,” he says. “How did you get there?” He doesn’t even know if Spinelli can hear him or not, but Jason keeps up a litany of encouraging words as he picks his way through the forest.

 

Surprisingly, Jason doesn’t come across any other survivors or victims of the plane crash (he’s selfishly grateful for that), though he does happen upon torn bits of metal and other pieces of the downed plane. It’s slow going, because he’s trying to retrace Spinelli’s steps as he remembers them from the nightmare that woke him last night, and adding to them what Spinelli’s showing him now. And how this works, Jason will never know, but he’s not about to question it. He’s fully prepared to continue to just go with the flow, as long as it will get him to Spinelli.

 

Blood. On a leaf. And then another. A spot of it on a rock. Jason’s heart lurches, and he follows the trail of blood. When it starts to dwindle, Jason curses. So much blood lost, temperatures almost below freezing, and shock. Jason wonders what state he’ll find Spinelli in. 

 

“Almost there Spinelli,” Jason murmurs. He doesn’t know how he knows this, he just does. Feels it in his gut, like a knife, twisting.

 

_Stone Cold._

 

The voice Jason hears in his head is tired, and Jason tells Spinelli to hold on, sends him a mental prod, and a picture of where he is. He doesn’t know if it works, but he continues on because he knows he’s close, that Spinelli is somewhere nearby, sitting at the base of a giant pine tree, thick roots digging into his ass.

 

He sees the jagged rock first, and his heart skips a beat. Jason’s feet propel him forward, seemingly of their own accord, and then he sees the shock of black hair, the much too pale face, pinched in pain.

 

“Spinelli!”

 

Spinelli’s head swivels toward Jason’s voice, but he doesn’t acknowledge Jason in any other way.

 

“Stone Cold,” Spinelli whispers to himself, “I love you. Please let Danny know that his Dada Spinelli loves him, will always love him, that I’ll be looking upon him from heaven.”

 

“Spinelli!”

 

“It’s almost like I can see you now,” Spinelli says, and there’s a sad, wistful smile on his face. His arms are crossed over his body and he’s shivering, his body’s racked with jerky shudders. “Goodbye.”

 

Spinelli’s eyes close, he slumps against the tree, and falls sideways. Jason moves, heart in his throat, stomach lurching, and he reaches Spinelli in three short strides, but it’s too late. The younger man is unconscious, blood slowly leaking from a wound to his head. Jason searches him for other wounds, finds one on Spinelli’s left arm. There’s a piece of metal sticking out of it. It isn’t large, just a small, metallic sliver, but it looks like it might be infected – the skin surrounding it red and glassy looking.

 

Jason places his fingers against Spinelli’s jugular. Spinelli’s flesh is cold to the touch, reminding Jason of how he’d found Sam when her throat had been slit by a serial killer that she and Spinelli had been trailing under suspicion that he was cheating on his wife. He hadn’t been cheating, but he’d been doing something much worse, and Sam had paid the price for discovering his deadly little secret. He was now serving time in prison.

 

“Come on, Spinelli,” Jason says when his trembling fingers can’t immediately find a pulse. He taps Spinelli’s cheek, but the man remains unresponsive. “Spinelli, you can’t do this to me, to Danny, to us.”

 

“He alive?”

 

Jason starts and whirls on the man who asked the question. He isn’t getting anything from Spinelli – no supernatural Spinelli point-of-view to guide him.

 

Jason nods, even though his frozen fingers haven’t found a pulse yet. Spinelli can’t be dead, Jason won’t allow it.

 

“Move aside,” the man, a paramedic, says. “Let me check him out. Hey, guys, we got a live one here!” he shouts over his shoulder, and Jason hears shouts of ‘Amen,’ and ‘Thank God,’ echoed in return.

 

Jason’s pushed aside when he doesn’t move right away. He falls on his ass, but doesn’t even feel it. He’s numb with fear when the paramedic presses his fingers to Spinelli’s neck and frowns.

 

“I’m gonna need some help here.” The paramedic’s words give Jason hope, because he hasn’t outright declared Spinelli to be dead. “His pulse is erratic. Looks like we’re dealing with exposure, infection and a concussion.”

 

The next twenty minutes pass by in a blur for Jason who watches the paramedics and rescue workers stabilize and get ready to move the still unconscious, but thankfully alive Spinelli. Jason’s there, and yet he’s not.

 

He can’t get a read on Spinelli, and even though their connection was so sudden and unexpected, he misses it. Misses seeing and feeling the world through Spinelli. Even though it was under such dire circumstances, Jason wonders what it would be like to experience the world from Spinelli’s perspective outside of the plane crash. He hopes he gets the chance to find out.


	2. Not so Blue Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spinelli doesn't want to wake up - he's enjoying this dream.

Spinelli’s surrounded by darkness and smoke. He can’t breathe, can’t see, and he hurts. His arm feels like it’s on fire and his head feels like it’s going to fall off. Dizziness makes it difficult for him to gain his bearings, and he can’t seem to get his feet to cooperate with his desire, need, to move. The floor of the plane shifts beneath him and he loses the scant dinner that his grandmother had insisted he eat before driving him to the airport.

 

He’s got to find Stone Cold, because Stone Cold will know what to do. Stone Cold is always good in a crisis. But then he remembers, and Spinelli stumbles along on his own. He wouldn’t let Stone Cold accompany him on his visit to his grandmother, because he was afraid of what his grandmother would think of him if she knew that he was in love with a man. That he was gay. It was nothing more than foolish pride, and now Spinelli was going to pay for it with his life. It didn’t seem fair.

 

“Spinelli?”

 

Spinelli ignores the voice, because he knows that it’s only a figment of his imagination. He’s alone. He’s going to die alone, out in the middle of nowhere.

 

“Spinelli, wake up.” Stone Cold’s voice sounds insistent, and Spinelli turns toward where he thinks the sound is coming from.

 

“You’re safe now,” Stone Cold’s voice says.

 

But Spinelli can still smell smoke, can feel blood trickling down his face. It’s cold, so cold, and he’s dying.

 

“You’re at the hospital.” Stone Cold’s voice is comforting, and Spinelli finds himself wishing that his husband really is there, with him, and that he really is in the hospital, rather than surrounded by the dead and dying.

 

“Spinelli, open your eyes.”

 

There’s pressure on his right hand, pressure that doesn’t hurt, but feels good, safe. It’s hard to open his eyes, especially since he thought they were already open, that what he was seeing – charred bodies of people who had once been alive, laughing, and singing Christmas carols; the remnants of the plane strewn about the rocks of the Smoky Mountain; trees, trees and more trees. If he never sees another tree in his life, Spinelli thinks that he won’t mind.

 

“That’s it, Spinelli,” Stone Cold’s voice is calming, coaxing. “Open those beautiful green eyes for me.”

 

“Stone Cold?” Spinelli’s voice sounds foreign to his ears, like he’s speaking with a mouth full of gravel. His throat hurts, and his mouth is dry. His tongue feels like it is twice its normal size.

 

“Spinelli.”

 

Spinelli can feel Stone Cold’s stubble against his cheek, can smell the earthy scent of his lover, and he breathes it in, cherishing it.

 

“Here, drink this.”

 

Spinelli feels a straw at his lips, and opens up just enough to let the plastic slip past his lips. He takes a tentative sip, and then, when he feels the lukewarm water slide over his tongue, he drinks readily of thirst quenching drink, protesting weakly when it’s removed.

 

“That feel better?”

 

“Yes,” Spinelli nods, and is surprised that his head isn’t pounding. His headache’s almost gone; there’s just a trace of it left.

 

“Can you open your eyes?”

 

There’s that question again, and Spinelli is loath to open his eyes, and have his dream dispelled by the sight of endless trees and a bleak landscape. He likes this dream. Likes having Stone Cold at his bedside, plying him with water, whiskers brushing against his cheek as he whispers huskily in his ear.

 

“I like this dream,” he says.

 

“It isn’t a dream,” Stone Cold insists, and there’s that pressure on his hand again, a calloused thumb rubbing along his knuckles.

 

“Prove it,” Spinelli says, admittedly a little petulantly, but he can’t help it. If this is only a dream, he wants it to last forever; he doesn’t want to wake up to find himself surrounded by pine trees taller than the Jolly Green Giant.

 

Silence meets his request for proof, and Spinelli’s heart sinks. He knows then that he is dying. That this is his mind’s way of bringing him to the other side with a pleasant fantasy. But then the sound of fabric shifting and the feel of a weight settling on his chest distract him, and before he realizes what’s happening, there’re lips against his and he can’t breathe again, but he doesn’t really mind, because he knows those lips, and that tongue, and those teeth tugging at his lips.

 

“Stone Cold?”

 

“Spinelli, you with me now?” Stone Cold asks.

 

His lips are still in place over Spinelli’s mouth, his breath hot against Spinelli’s neck and chin. He tastes like bitter coffee and sweet mint.  

 

Spinelli’s eye fly open and he blinks in the sudden brightness. It’s too white and there’s too much light, but then Stone Cold’s eyes, a deeper blue than the sky, are there, and Spinelli doesn’t care if he’s dreaming or dead or whatever this is, because Stone Cold’s lips are once more on his, and this time the kiss is more demanding, needier. It steals his breath, makes his head spin, and when their lips part, he’s left panting and wanting more.

 

“What happened?” Spinelli asks, once the room stops spinning and his heart is back where it should be, rather than in his throat. He remembers the plane crash, remembers that he walked away from it, that he pictured Stone Cold there in the forest with him, but he doesn’t remember how he was rescued.

 

“You were in a plane crash,” Stone Cold says. “I…” he runs a hand through his hair, and there’s a pained look on his face that Spinelli wishes he could kiss away. “I . . . there was some kind of connection between us, I could see what you saw, feel what you felt.”

 

“So, you did find me?” Spinelli smiles and he reaches for Stone Cold’s hand, squeezing it tight. “I didn’t dream that part?”

 

Stone Cold shakes his head. “No, you didn’t dream that part.”

 

“Do you still feel this . . . connection?”

 

Stone Cold shakes his head again, and frowns, as though sad.

 

“Come here,” Spinelli commands, and Stone Cold complies. “Kiss me again?”

 

Stone Cold shakes his head, but there’s an indulgent smile on his lips, and he kisses Spinelli. Spinelli wills every bit of himself into the kiss, wanting to spark that connection between them again, if he can. He wants Stone Cold to understand what it feels like to him when they kiss, just how much he loves the former mobster.

 

And, unless he’s missed his mark, the way that Stone Cold’s breath hitches, and his eyes blow wide are an indication that Spinelli has accomplished his goal. He darts his tongue in past Stone Cold’s lips, tastes his fill of the other man, and marvels in the fact that he is alive.

 

“What day is it?” Spinelli asks once their lips part.

 

“Christmas Eve,” Stone Cold answers. “Happy Anniversary, Spinelli. I love you.”

 

Spinelli answers him with a kiss, and somehow that’s enough.


End file.
